


People Will Say We're In Love

by giddyant



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:04:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddyant/pseuds/giddyant
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale wander through history being massively, obviously in love.





	People Will Say We're In Love

**Mesopotamia, 1740BC**

‘Ea-nasir! Oh good, you’re back.’

‘Yes, dear. How was your day?’ Ea-nasir sat down and poured himself a cup of beer.

‘Visitor called for you while you were out.’

‘If it’s about a horse, I told him, I said, a wooden leg adds class. And balance. I mean, that’s best khalub that is.’

‘Ea-nasir.’

‘Alright, maybe not best khalub, but decent khalub.’

‘Beloved.’

‘Alright, maybe not khalub.’

‘Ea-nasir! He wasn’t complaining about a horse!’

‘Good. Nothing to complain about. He wanted a horse, he got a horse. Near as damn it, anyway.’

Aya, Ea-nasir’s wife, threw her eyes to the ceiling and reminded herself that strangling him was out of the question. It was all very well for her husband to sod off all day making dodgy deals and ‘acquiring’ various goods that had fallen off the back of carts, but she bloody hated having to deal with unhappy (and they were always unhappy these days) customers. 

‘It was that Crowling, Crawling? You know, that bloke with the eye condition.’

Ea-nasir relaxed. He hadn’t sold anything to him yet.

‘Oh? Did he say what he was after?’

‘Well, he knows you’re trying to get one over on his fancy piece, doesn’t he?’

Ea-nasir froze for a moment, then whipped his head around to look at his wife, who was leaning against the wall with an exasperated look on her face. 

‘What fancy piece?’

‘That posh fella. Azir-afel? Something like that.’

‘That’s his fancy piece?’ Ea-nasir paused to consider the two. ‘Huh, well, I don’t know which of them is settling, but someone is.’

‘It’s me,’ muttered Aya. ‘Anyway, he didn’t seem at all pleased. Well, he wouldn’t be, would he? Said, if anyone was going to be tormenting Azir-afel, it was going to be him.’

‘Tormenting? Kinky.’

Aya took one look at Ea-nasir’s grin and rolled her eyes. She’d say he had a one-track mind, but to be fair, he also spent a lot of time coming up with ways to swindle people. 

‘What were you going to try to pull with Azir-afel, anyway?’

Ea-nasir threw a hand across his chest and tried to look horrified.

‘Me? Pull something with that lovely, trusting gent? Aya, who do you take me for?’

‘Someone whose pile of complaints tablets are so out of hand that I’ve given up on tidying that corner of the house?’

‘Oh, _fine_ , be like that. Nothing too bad, Aya, was just going to sell him some cloth. Finest woven cloth you can get!’

‘Do you mean that roll you brought home from the tavern that smells like goat’s droppings?’

Ea-nasir looked shifty for a moment. ‘Goatskin’s quite sought after.’

‘Is it goatskin?’ Aya persisted.

‘...maybe. You don’t know it isn’t.[1]'

‘Well, you’re not now. That Crawling bloke looked like he meant business. Kept saying things like ‘Can you smell smoke? Bet that roof is very flammable.’ and ‘You know, these new builds just don’t stay up like the old ones. Collapse if you sneeze at them.’.’

Ea-nasir made a show of grumbling, but agreed. ‘A complaint’s one thing, Aya, gives us something to give us a good laugh on a cold winter’s night, but no point in making dangerous enemies, I suppose.’

Aya made a non-committal noise and started getting the evening meal together. 

‘Still,’ Ea-nasir mused, ‘Suppose it’s romantic, really. Threatening people to protect your great love. You’d do that, wouldn’t you, beloved?’

Aya rolled her eyes. ‘I think I draw the line at telling your customers you’ve gone on a month-long purchasing trip to Persia when you're actually just hiding in the water trough.’

 

 

**London, 1601.**

After another inexplicably successful performance of ‘Hamlet’, a number of the company decided to celebrate at the nearest pub.

William Shakespeare looked much as he had looked for the past two weeks; like he had come into a great fortune due to the death of an estranged uncle but one who he half-expected to walk in the door out of sheer spite any minute. He and Richard Burbage had retired to a table in the back in order to try to make some kind of sense of their abrupt change in fortune.

‘Look, it’s not that I’m not grateful or anything, but ‘Antonio’s Revenge’ was packing them out not a fortnight ago and we were fortunate to get a few drunks and a dog![2]’

‘I know, Richard, I don’t know what to make of it either! It’s not that I don’t think the play’s deserving of success, it is, one of my best-’

Burbage made a questioning noise.

‘-and it is one of your finest performances, Richard, undoubtedly. But sod all people were interested in it! I got told by one person that I should cut three-quarters of the dithering and put in some songs!’

‘People don’t know what’s good for them, Will.’

‘I did think, if it has any faults - which I’m not saying it does, mind - is, maybe it’s a bit depressing? I put in as many dirty jokes as I could manage, but, well, you can only cheer up a tragedy so much. Maybe I could have given Rosencrantz and Guildenstern more bits of business?’

‘I don’t know. Don’t get too many laughs at tragedies, usually. Well, barring ‘Titus Andronicus’.’

‘That was meant to be funny! Not my fault people thought it was serious.[3]’

‘Well, a full house is a nice change anyway. Here, do those two in the corner look familiar?’

Shakespeare tried to crane his neck to look over inconspicuously. ‘Can’t quite see in this light. Why do you ask?’

Burbage looked thoughtful. ‘I think it’s one of those gentlemen you thought might be spies.’

‘Oh, those two! Well, how else are we to take it when someone ambles in halfway through the play, has an incomprehensible conversation with a member of the audience. then swans off again?’

‘They may have an, ahem, arrangement, Will.’

‘I don’t know what you mean!’ hissed Shakespeare, looking over his shoulder for anyone who might have overheard.

‘A thing. An entanglement. A _friendliness_.’

‘Stop waggling your eyebrows, they’ll fall off, then we’ll have to cancel tomorrow’s performance! Anyway, I’m pretty sure they’re spies.’

Burbage leaned back in his chair. ‘And how, pray tell, are you ‘pretty sure’?’

‘Because that ginger one used to hang around with Marlowe all the time! And god’s bodkins, Marlowe only ever hung around with three types of people: theatre types, criminal types and spies! Therefore, they’re spies!’

Burbage shrugged. ‘Nothing stopping them from being criminals, Especially if I’m right and you’re not. We both know plenty of that particular criminal type. Incidentally, didn’t you hang around with Marlowe too?’

‘Richard!’

‘The ginger one’s your type and all. Are you just hoping he’s single?’

‘Oh, shut up.’

 

 

Meanwhile, at the table in the corner:

‘No! The Seven Against Thebes was a masterpiece. Aeschylus was especially fond of that one, as I recall. He could recite the speeches standing on his head. And did! That was a terribly good evening.’

Crowley grimaced into his drink. Long-winded speeches about morals quite understandably made his scales crawl.

‘I’ve always preferred a comedy, myself[4]. I mean, give me a decent laugh, any day.’

‘Well, everything has its place, Crowley. Drama balances comedy.’

‘And Satan below, did that Thebes one go on. Hours and hours. Didn’t even have a decent fight[5] in it.’ 

‘Well, I’m still grateful for what you did for Mr. Shakespeare’s play. They’re turning them away at the door now.’

‘Not missing much,’ Crowley muttered quietly. ‘Well,’ he added louder, ‘that’ll continue, I didn’t half-arse it.’

Aziraphale beamed. ‘Well, I hope it’ll have a good run. They might still be talking about it in ten years!’

Crowley hummed noncommittally. It would be at least that long… 

The angel had been very fond of it, after all.

 

 

**London, 1946.**

Raymond West, the well known novelist[6], hurried along the street, tutted at a badly parked Bentley (half on the footpath and half blocking a delivery entrance) and ducked into the entrance of Forsyth’s Hotel. He stood in the foyer and looked around.

‘Aunt Jane!’

Miss Jane Marple was sitting by herself in the corner with an afternoon tea in front of her. The two gentlemen at the next table were in the process of leaving and were smiling cautiously at her as they gathered their belongings. She waved at Raymond, then turned to the two men.

‘So lovely to have met you, Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley. I do hope I didn’t bore you with my chatter.’

They muttered reassurances to the negative, then made a hurried farewell and left. Raymond sat down across from his aunt. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, he enquired as to who the two gentlemen had been.

‘Not involved in one of your murders, are they? No, let me guess. They’re suspects in the murder of the blond one’s awful grandmother who died of a surfeit of lampreys. The grandson had a dreadful row with her just before she died as she was threatening to leave her estate to a cats’ home and he was wasting his days as a… hmm, as a failing theatrical agent! The red-haired gent is the disreputable (you can tell he’s disreputable from the snakeskin shoes) backer of his latest show, a musical based on oh, let’s say Lorna Doone and who has an arrangement with a dodgy fishmonger to procure suspicious amounts of said lampreys.’

Miss Marple frowned at her nephew who was chuckling at his flight of fancy.

‘These things are not to be made light of, Raymond. Those gentlemen were quite kind and helped me find my umbrella. I honestly thought I had left it on the train.’

Raymond smiled with no small amount of humour. ‘And then they made it appear from thin air.’

‘It certainly seemed as such. Though where the cover for it came from, I don’t know[7], considering I lost that in 1926. Mr. Fell is a bookseller, Raymond. An antiquarian, I believe, so he does not have your books. I did enquire. Quite an old-fashioned gentleman, just as I remember from when I was a girl. He and Mr. Crowley are a lovely couple.’

‘Aunt Jane!’ Raymond’s amused smile had disappeared and he looked scandalised. ‘You don’t mean that, surely!’

Miss Marple looked at him faintly disapprovingly.

‘Oh, Raymond. I know you think I have a mind like a sink. And that’s true, I suppose, in a fashion. These things are frowned upon and not spoken of, but, my dear, there have always been such pairs. I see so little point in ignoring it. I remember Mr. Yates and Mr. Taylor who used to live by the Vicarage. Quite a nice couple, though you may have been forgiven for thinking they wouldn’t suit, Mr. Yates being so taken up with his lepidoptery and Mr. Taylor much more interested in music, but they lived quite happily together.’

Raymond, who prided himself on his cool, dispassionate eye on the modern world in his books, found himself without speech for a moment.

‘Well, _really_ , Aunt Jane. You still can’t assume such things about people!’

‘My dear, it’s not difficult to see.’

Raymond suddenly found himself wishing that Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley were somehow wrapped up in a murder instead.

‘You can’t be sure, though…’ he trailed off, feeling himself to be on unknown and shifting ground. 

Miss Marple paused, then slowly nodded.

‘Yes, I suppose that’s true. They did remind me somewhat of Evadne Lynsey and Dr. Jeffries. Evadne had such trouble looking after her mother, and the doctor was there quite often. Once Muriel Lynsey had passed on, of course, all their efforts came to an end and they finally had a chance to look up and find that they were quite fond of each other. Married within 6 months, as I recall, though the wait may have been more to do with decorum given the circumstances rather than any uncertainty.’

Raymond had decided mid-way through the digression into local romances that discretion was the better valour and to try to head his Aunt off into slightly less turbulent territory. Perhaps a discussion about the linen sale she had said she had wanted to get to[8]. 

Meanwhile, on the street outside:

‘Are you sure she’s not one of yours?’

‘Yes!’

‘Well, she’s not ours, either, Angel.’

‘Extraordinary lady.’

‘That’s one word.’

Aziraphale stopped walking and turned to face Crowley.

‘Did you understand what she meant by that story about the fishmonger delivering haddock to the wrong house?

Crowley looked nearly at the edge of his patience.

‘ _No. And I don’t think anyone could._ ’

‘I mean, they’re all for parables Up There, but they’re usually quite clear cut. You know, help the needy, don’t give up, all that. But what on earth were we supposed to understand from a haddock being served with the wrong accompaniment and then the lady of the house losing a hat pin?’

Crowley groaned. ‘Angel. Why are you looking for sense in the ramblings of some old biddy? We got away before she decided to tell us the ins and outs of her rheumatism-’

‘Did she have rheumatism? Oh, how distressing.’

‘-ngh. No, she didn’t have rheumatism. But we would have, had we not left, heard all about any maladies she may or may not think she has. And thank Satan, we aren’t hearing it now and her nephew is.’

Aziraphale started moving again and Crowley followed.

‘I have read his books, you know. The nephew.’

‘Oh?’

‘Not really my sort of thing[9]. Very… modern.’

‘Modern.’

‘Mm. Shall we go back to the shop? I have the most exquisite port from 1823. Remember, it’s that one you liked when we went to that little place in Bath.’

‘Oh, go on then, tempt me.’

 

 

**London, 2019**

The day of the Apocalypse.

In a cafe not far from A. Z. Fell Booksellers in Soho, a man who seemed to be composed 75% of plastic bags rustled up to the counter and grinned at the woman behind it.

‘Well, you owe me a pint.’

‘Why?’

‘I have incontrovertible proof about Mr. Fell and Flash[10].’

Eileen narrowed her eyes. ‘How incontrovertible? You said incontrovertible before, Geoff, and all it was, was them looking at each other.’

‘Looking at each other for a good 30 seconds straight! And just smiling at each other! Anyway, no. Proper proof, Eileen.’

‘Proper is in the eye of the beholder. If I think it’s convincing, fine, I will stand you a pint later. For now, you’ll have to make do with tea.’ With that, she put a cup of builders tea in front of him, then folded her arms.

‘Well, go on then. This better be good.’

‘I saw them break up.’

Eileen’s jaw dropped. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I am. Only an hour or so ago, it was. And a proper full-on middle-of-the-street Soho break up it was too. Only thing missing was clothes being fucked out the window.’ 

Eileen had to admit privately that it wasn’t exactly a surprise. While her and Geoff had enjoyed their relatively unserious debate as to the exact status of their neighbour’s relationship for a number of years now, they had wondered occasionally if ‘opposites attract’ really could stretch that far. Mr. Fell was like one of those blokes in old Hammer films who was fluffy, retiring and often got killed for opening the wrong book or for want of being Peter Cushing. Flash, on the other hand, had always struck them as one of those posh wankers who thought they were the next Pete Doherty. Sunglasses at all hours, bloody awful haircuts and one of those pointless tie/scarf things that didn’t go around a collar properly. 

‘Oh no. That poor Mr. Fell,’ Eileen paused for a moment. ‘Wait, is it a case of ‘that poor Mr. Fell’? Or is that fluffy exterior hiding all-sorts?’

‘No, it’s poor Mr. Fell, alright. Flash was shouting at him from that giant sodding car of his that he was leaving and he’d never even think about him ever again and Mr. Fell was just stood there looking completely miserable. You could just about see the poor bastard’s heart breaking.’

‘That’s awful,’ Eileen leaned forward in fascination. ‘So, what made it all blow up, do you know?’

‘Weeell,’ Geoff paused. ‘Flash’s either joined a band or a cult. Said something about being off to the stars.’

‘Might be reality tv,’ Eileen said doubtfully.

‘Does he really strike you as the Love Island[11] type?’ Geoff replied scathingly.

‘Doesn’t have to be Love Island. Could be anything.’

‘Britain’s Next Top Shoreditch Twat?’

‘Well, in any case,’ Eileen had decided to ignore him. ‘I’m sure Mr. Fell is well out of it there. I might go round tomorrow and see how he is. Maybe take round some biscuit cake.’

Eileen meant by this ‘go around tomorrow and see if I can wangle out what actually happened’.

Geoff sipped at his tea. ‘You do that. Here, can you smell smoke?’

 

The bookshop was ablaze. Geoff and Eileen stood outside the caff, horrorstruck. 

‘Oh. Oh no. You don’t think he did anything stupid, do you?’ Eileen asked in a low voice.

‘Which one?’ 

‘Oh. Well, either, I suppose.’

A roaring came from the west and a Bentley pulled up on the footpath. Flash jumped out, argued with a firefighter and ran into the shop. They could just about hear him shouting for Mr. Fell over the sounds of the shop falling into the flames. Geoff covered his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, Flash walked out again, covered in soot and with a face no-one could look at for long. He got into his car and drove off. Geoff and Eileen, by mutual silent agreement, retired back to the caff, where they drank a number of cups of tea in silence.

 

The next morning, Geoff walked past Mr. Fell’s bookshop. Pfft. Closed as usual. It was a miracle that man managed to stay in business.

 

 

**London, 2019**

The day after the Apocalypse.

‘Magnum of the Krug for table 25, Maciej.’

Maciej looked over Kirsty’s shoulder at the couple at table 25. Two gentlemen, one blond, the other ginger. Ah. The man from the bookshop and his partner. Always left a good tip.

‘Anniversary or birthday, do you think? Or a proposal, possibly?’ Maciej loved it when people got engaged there.

‘Dunno and don’t care.’

With that, Kirsty took the bottle, glasses and ice-bucket back over. She came back a few minutes later, looking irritated. 

‘Soppy as fuck. Called each other ‘the world’. I mean, for fuck’s sake.’

Kirsty had recently broken up with her partner and had moved on from crying at the sight of happy couples to just seething quietly when they dared to be in the vicinity.

‘I don’t know, Kirsty, I think you might be being a bit harsh,’ said Maciej placidly. ‘Those two’ve been coming here for years now. They must be together a good long while. Don’t you think it’s nice they’ve not lost that loving feeling?’

The returned glare could have burned right through him and the bar as well.

Maciej raised his hands in surrender. Kirsty plastered the best fake smile she could manage on her face and moved back among the tables. 

Mr. Fell and his partner stayed for a few hours, drinking, laughing, but mainly giving each other what Maciej’s teenage daughter had told him were called ‘heart eyes[12]’, which was impressive given that one of them insisted on keeping his sunglasses on. Maciej had always been a hopeless romantic and this display was cheered him up until the end of the evening. He decided to buy Emil flowers on the way home from his shift. 

 

‘What did I do to deserve this?’ Emil laughed when he was ostentatiously presented them in the kitchen. 

‘Nothing,’ Maciej put his hands around Emil’s waist. ‘Other than being you. You should get all the flowers for being you.’

‘Oh, very smooth.’

‘Ugh, Dads,’ groaned their sullen teenager[13] who had wandered in.

‘Welcome home, Dad. How was work, Dad. I’m so grateful for you working your fingers to the bone to pay for my iPhone, Dad.’

‘You give rich idiots alcohol, Dad, you’re not down a mine. And it’s an Android.’

‘Work my fingers to the bone giving those idiots alcohol, Malgorzata. Anyway, two of those rich idiots at work today reminded me I hadn’t brought your father flowers in far too long. Allow an old man his whims.’

‘How’d they do that?’ Emil was trimming the stems of the flowers at the sink.

‘They’ve been coming to the Ritz for years and today was their anniversary. And they look happier than ever.’

‘You’re the world’s biggest sap, Dad[14],’ Malgorzata managed to make rolling her eyes a full-body movement, and proceeded to slump ostentatiously out of the kitchen.

 

Meanwhile, in the back of a bookshop in Soho:

Aziraphale was bustling around the shelves, occasionally gasping at a particularly interesting addition of Adam’s. Crowley had flung himself down on the couch and was nursing a glass of wine.

‘Oh! A first edition of ‘The Camels Are Coming’! My goodness!’

‘Happy, Angel?’

Aziraphale spun around. ‘Oh! I’m sorry, I’ve been neglecting you. Yes, I’m very happy.’

Crowley waved his hand at the shelves. ‘Not neglected. I’m glad. I know you’ve lost some of the books you were fond of, but these are worth something at least.’

Aziraphale looked confused. ‘Oh, the books aren’t what’s making me happy.’

It was Crowley’s turn to look confused. ‘Oh. I suppose putting one over on Heaven and Hell is pretty great, too.’

Aziraphale walked over to the couch and sat down next to him.

‘While that is indeed gratifying, that’s not what I meant either.’ His voice was soft but steady. Aziraphale carefully placed his hand over Crowley’s. 

‘If the bookshop had never been restored to me, Crowley, I would have been entirely happy as long as you were there.’

Crowley stared at their joined hands for a moment, then cautiously moved his to tangle their fingers together.

‘Are you entirely sure about this, Angel?’ He sounded hesitant, but hopeful.

Aziraphale smiled. ‘My dear, I am. And it’s not like I haven’t had a few millenia to get used to the idea.’ 

‘People will talk,’ Crowley murmured, moving closer to Aziraphale.

‘Oh, let them!’

**Author's Note:**

> 11 Neither did Ea-nasir. He found it best to not ask too many questions of his suppliers. [return to text]  
> 22The dog gave up after the first three performances and decided to beg at the nearest butchers instead.[return to text]  
> 33Looking back, Shakespeare thought he should really have left in more of the pratfalls.[return to text]  
> 44Crowley had particularly liked ‘Five Go To The Oracle At Delphi’.[return to text]  
> 55This was not true of the performance of it in 325BC. Due to an unfortunate incident caused by the lead actor’s wife leaving him for a rival, one of the speeches wherein he is meant to describe the defenders of the city ended up with him describing how much of a git he thought the rival was and biting one of the chorus members.[return to text]  
> 66He specialised in Hard-Hitting Novels which had Something To Say. His books were very popular with young people who wished to be Hard-Hitting and have Something To Say, but found it difficult to come up with anything.[return to text]  
> 77Down between a cushion and a seat-frame in a tea-room in Bath where it had rested for the last 20 years.[return to text]  
> 88This would turn out to actually be linked to a murder.[return to text]  
> 99By this, Aziraphale meant that he had banned them from a fifty foot vicinity of his shop.[return to text]  
> 1010Though they had learned Crowley’s name a number of years previously, the nickname ‘Flash Harry’ had stuck. Quite understandably.[return to text]  
> 1111Though Crowley had invented reality television, Love Island was an innovation all humanity’s own. He was simultaneously proud and appalled. [return to text]  
> 1212She also banned him from ever using it in conversation.[return to text]  
> 1313Possible tautology.[return to text]  
> 1414He wasn’t, but he was in the top 5. The number one was a quantity surveyor in Auckland.[return to text]


End file.
